ENMITY: An enthralling Scottish murder mystery (Detective Inspector Munro murder mysteries Book 3)

by Pete Brassett

  ENMITY

  Pete Brassett

  Published by

  THE BOOK FOLKS

  London, 2016

  www.thebookfolks.com

  © Pete Brassett

  Polite note to readers

  This book is written in British English apart from instances where local dialect is used. For that reason, spellings of words and other conventions may differ slightly from North American English.

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  We hope you enjoy the book.

  Also by Pete Brassett, featuring D.I. Munro and D.S. West:

  ENMITY can be enjoyed on its own or as part of a series. It is the third book about the detectives Munro and West. The other books are, in order of publication: SHE, AVARICE, DUPLICITY, TERMINUS, TALION and PERDITION.

  Introducing Detective Inspector James Munro...

  Detective Inspector Munro is a burly Scottish policeman who doesn’t suffer fools gladly. Detective Sergeant West is an intelligent young woman, new to the force, with a lot to prove.

  When a missing person case lands on their desks, Munro is sceptical there is much to it. But their investigation soon comes to some strange findings, and before long, a body is found.

  With a serial killer on their hands they must act fast to trace a woman placed at the scene of the crime. Yet discovering her true identity, let alone finding her, proves difficult. And as the plot thickens they realise the crime is far graver than either of them could have imagined.

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  Visit the end of this book to see a full list of all the books in this series.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Character List

  Other books in this series

  More great fiction by Pete Brassett

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  Chapter 1

  For those whose culinary prowess was limited to opening a tin of beans or grilling the occasional slice of cheese on toast, the tiny kitchen, with no natural light and a broken oven, was ideal. Crammed side by side along the back wall sat the sink – filled with empty beer cans; the cooker – its white, enamelled surface coated in a thin layer of sticky, brown grease; and the fridge – wedged tightly between two ageing, dilapidated cupboards.

  He stood in his underwear clutching a heavy, copper-based saucepan in his right hand and stared at the last of his provisions sitting on the worktop: half a pint of milk, a knob of butter and two brown, speckled eggs. The only decision he had to make was: fried, boiled, poached or scrambled? He spun the pan by the handle as he contemplated his options. Frying involved oil, of which he had none. Boiling or poaching used only water and therefore meant little or no washing-up. Scrambled, however, for some bizarre reason, seemed to make the eggs go further and would also ensure neither the milk nor the butter would go to waste. He chose scrambled and brought the pan down hard, smashing the eggs to smithereens and splattering himself and the worktop with dollops of bright, yellow yolk and sticky, white albumen in the process. Sneering, he dropped the pan to the floor, showered and dressed for work.

  * * *

  Andrew Maxwell Stewart, “Max” to those who knew him, cursed as he forced himself into his suit which, he’d been assured, was cut in a style deemed to be de rigueur for someone in his profession, despite his reflection telling him it belonged on somebody six inches shorter. The ridiculously slim-fitting jacket inhibited any kind of movement from the elbow up and the trousers, he was sure, would in time be responsible for a low sperm count. He counted his blessings that he didn’t have to bend to lace up his shoes and slipped on a pair of loafers.

  The short walk to Beresford Terrace and the estate agency where he idled away the working day, was fraught with the usual obstacles, in particular the hordes of zombies who bumbled along with their heads buried in their phones, fearful of missing another “tweet”, a “like”, or, God forbid, a photo of what their “friends” ate for dinner the night before. He paused by the door, took a deep breath, and walked inside.

  * * *

  The receptionist, a young, lissom brunette by the name of Lizzie, thought of him as sartorially elegant and, with his ruffled hair and two days’ worth of stubble on his boyish, pointed chin, the epitome of “ruggedly handsome”. She would have been wise, however, to heed the adage involving books and covers for beneath his polished exterior lay the only pair of socks and the only pair of shorts he possessed, neither of which had been washed in days.

  ‘Alright Max?’ she said, smiling coyly, batting her eyelids.

  ‘Aye, not bad,’ said Max, ‘you?’

  ‘I’m okay. Listen, I was thinking, it’s nearly a month since you joined the firm and we’ve still not been out for that “welcome-aboard” drink, have we?’

  ‘No, no, you’re quite right. We haven’t.’

  ‘So, how about it? After all, it is Friday. We’ll not have to be up in the morning.’

  ‘Sorry hen, but I’ve plans already,’ said Max, lying.

  ‘Oh,’ said Lizzie, disappointed, ‘is it…? I imagine you must have a date?’

  ‘No, no. Nothing like that.’

  ‘Oh good, I mean, it must be your girlfriend, then.’

  ‘Dinnae have one,’ said Max, ‘I’ve, er, I’ve a pal down, that’s all. Been meaning to catch up for ages, cannae get out of it.’

  ‘Och, well, I know what that’s like. Maybe… maybe if you’re not doing anything tomorrow…’

  ‘Tomorrow? Saturday? Aye, okay. Maybe. I’ll let you know.’

  * * *

  Max sighed as he pulled off his jacket, flicked on the computer and waited for the ping which would invariably herald the arrival of precisely zero emails. He checked his watch against the clock on the wall. It was 9:15am.

  ‘Coffee?’ he said, making his way to the kitchenette.

  ‘Aye, thanks very much,’ said Lizzie. ‘So, what’s on your schedule today?’

  ‘Same as yesterday.’

  ‘Oh, dear, is it that quiet?’

  ‘Aye, but it’s not up to me to drum up business, is it? That’s down to your boss.’

  ‘Right enough, I suppose. Do you not get a wee bit bored?’

  ‘Bored? Are you joking me? All the time. Every day. This job is killing me.’

  ‘Och, it’s not that bad, is it? Getting paid to sit around doing nothing, it’s easy.’

  ‘It’s crap. It’s for folk with no drive, no ambition and no self-esteem. No offence, like.’

  ‘Doesnae bother me,’ said Lizzie, as Max struggled with his jacket, ‘but I’m just paid to answer the… are you off out?’

  ‘Aye, I’m away for my lunch.’

  ‘Lunch? But you’ve only just come in.’

  ‘Alright then, breakfast. Can I get you something?’
>
  ‘No, you’re alright, I’ve got mine here.’

  ‘What? More dried fruit and peanuts I suppose?’

  ‘Aye, what’s wrong with that?’

  ‘I’ve seen a pigeon with a gastric band eat more than you.’

  ‘I’m watching my weight. Besides, it’s healthy.’

  ‘Of course it is. So is looking like a stick insect.’

  ‘Have I done something to offend you?’

  Max paused by the door and frowned as he rubbed his forehead.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘look, I’m sorry, I didnae mean to… I’m just… I get irritable when I’ve not eaten. See you later.’

  * * *

  Much to his relief, the walk from the office up to Alloway Street was mercifully quiet, caught as it was in the lull between the shops opening for business and the inevitable lunchtime rush comprising workers craving their tuna mayos and steak pies, and pensioners on a mission to browse the department stores without spending a penny. He ambled, hands in pockets against the brisk breeze blowing in from the coast, until he reached the ATM. Reluctantly, he offered up his card and requested a balance. Overdrawn. Pay day – a weekend away. Against his better judgement, he withdrew £80, tucked £20 into his wallet for safe keeping and headed for the bookies three doors down.

  A row of gambling machines, each with the enticing lure of a £500 pay-out, sat idle, waiting for someone gullible enough to sate their voracious appetites. Max, more of an optimist than an addict, duly obliged and emerged nine minutes later, £60 poorer and a great deal angrier. He pulled out his antiquated phone and called the office.

  ‘Lizzie, listen hen, my phone’s about to die on me so I cannae talk long, I’ve got a lead on a place coming on the market. I think I can poach it off the other agents so if I’m not back, don’t worry. I’ll see you Monday, okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Lizzie, ‘but what about… I mean, do you think you fancy that drink?’

  ‘Aye, text me your number and I’ll give you a call.’

  * * *

  Waterstone’s on the high street was, to Max, one of life’s havens and the only place he could go, apart from the library or his flat, where he could sit undisturbed in detached solitude. He headed straight to “Philosophy”, plucked a copy of Plato’s Symposium from the shelf and settled down in an all-too-comfortable armchair. Any desire for lunch soon passed as he sat engrossed in the varying definitions of love proffered by the collection of poets, writers, physicians and statesmen, oblivious to the steady trickle of literary enthusiasts who huffed indignantly as they navigated their way around him.

  A middle-aged lady, smartly dressed in a grey blouse and black pencil skirt, slipped silently into the chair beside him, crossed her legs and watched, fascinated, as his face contorted with concentration. Max, aware of her presence, turned and slowly raised his eyes, settling on the badge pinned to her chest proclaiming “Manageress”.

  ‘Hola guapo,’ she said softly.

  ‘’Scuse me?’

  ‘Not being funny, but this isn’t a library.’

  Max, miffed by the interruption, stared into her dark, brown eyes.

  ‘Aye, and we’re not in Barcelona, either,’ he said. ‘What’s your point?’

  ‘Are you going to buy that book or not?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I havenae finished it yet.’

  ‘That’s not how it works.’

  ‘Look,’ said Max, ‘if it’s what I’m looking for, I’ll buy it. Okay?’

  ‘And what are you looking for?’ said the manageress, intrigued.

  ‘Answers.’

  ‘Answers? To what, exactly?’

  ‘Life. Love.’

  ‘And you think they’re in there?’

  ‘Aye, maybe,’ said Max, enthusiastically flicking back to the fourth speech, ‘see here, Aristophanes, you know what he says about love?’

  ‘Enlighten me,’ said the manageress, warming to him.

  ‘He says that humans were originally created with four arms and four legs and a head with two faces, and that they were incredibly powerful and clever, so much so that they were capable of reaching the heavens and unseating the gods.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Aye, so the council of gods, they were that scared, see, that Zeus came up with a plan to enfeeble them. He split them in two, into two separate beings, each with two arms, two legs and one face and in doing so, he condemned them to spend their entire lives searching for their other halves.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘So love is the name for our pursuit of wholeness, for our desire to be whole.’

  ‘That’s quite profound,’ said the manageress, slowly uncrossing her legs, ‘but my desire is to turn a profit.’

  ‘What good is a profit if you’ve no-one to share it with?’

  The manageress stood and shimmied as she pulled down her skirt.

  ‘Keep the book,’ she said, ‘it’s on me.’

  Max sat back and regarded her inquisitively, charmed by her coquettish smile.

  ‘Tell me, Miss Manageress,’ he said frowning, ‘are you whole, or are you searching?’

  ‘Oh, I’m searching,’ she said with a wink, ‘still searching.’

  * * *

  Max, having devoured the book in its entirety, sighed as he contemplated the wisdom of Plato, certain only that the answers he sought were too many to comprehend in one sitting. His checked his phone: 17:06. One message – Lizzie Paton. A phone number, a smiley face and an “x”. His lip curled at the thought. Not that he didn’t like her, not that she wasn’t attractive, he simply wasn’t interested. He glanced at the manageress as he left, returning her blush with an empathetic smile.

  The walk back to his flat above the shop on Main Street, punctuated by a pause on the bridge across the Ayr, another at the chippy to pick up a fish supper and a third for six cans of Stella, was pleasant enough. The odour coming from the kitchen as he opened the door was not. It reminded him of school, the kind of smell unleashed by the stink-bombs he used to lob around the playground before being expelled for unruly behaviour and a complete inability to concentrate in class.

  Realising there were limits to the degree of squalor he was willing to tolerate, he set his bags on the table, grabbed a tee-shirt from the pile of dirty laundry sitting on the bathroom floor and grudgingly set about mopping up the mess. Satisfied his efforts were borderline acceptable, he tossed the shirt in the bin and, in the absence of a television, sat down to eat his supper with classical music drifting from the radio and a copy of Machiavelli’s The Prince propped up before him.

  As was his routine after dinner, he added the empty beer cans to the collection in the sink, binned the remnants of his haddock and chips and headed out for a walk towards the river. By night, crossing the bridge was, he thought, like travelling through a portal to another world. Forsaking the relative peace of Main Street, he immersed himself in the hustle and bustle of Sandgate, teaming with after-work revellers intent on drinking themselves into oblivion. He stopped on the corner of St. John Street, arrested by the sight of a girl wearing the briefest of skirts, weaving from side to side as she teetered on a pair of vertigo-inducing heels, doing her best to remain upright. He shook his head in despair, bewildered that someone so young and so pretty could allow herself to get in to such a state. He stood, back against the wall as she approached, intent on giving her a wide berth but, as he expected, she careered into him like iron filings drawn to a magnet.

  ‘Whoops!’ she said, giggling, as he grabbed her by the shoulders. ‘Sorry!’

  ‘Nae bother,’ said Max, overwhelmed by the scent of her perfume, ‘are you okay?’

  ‘Aye,’ she said, throwing her arms around his neck, ‘do you mind if I stop here a moment, get my balance?’

  Max dropped his head, her hair smelled of Spring, he could feel the heat of her chest as it beat against his.

  ‘I think you’ve had one too many,’ he said, ‘will I get you a taxi?’

  ‘No, you’re
alright. I’ve not far to go.’

  ‘Are you sure? Where are you staying?’

  ‘Cathcart Street.’

  ‘Just around the corner, then. Will I walk you back?’

  ‘What are you? A knight in shining armour?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Max.’

  ‘Well, Max, I’m Ness and I’m thankful. Can I lean on you? Is that okay?’

  To all and sundry, they looked like any other regular couple returning home after a raucous night out, their gait steady and slow, she clinging to him for fear of falling, he wearing a smug expression, thinking himself fortunate to have such a girl on his arm. They stopped three doors from the end of the street.

  ‘Hope you’ve not too many stairs to climb,’ said Max, as she fumbled in her bag for a set of keys.

  ‘Opposite direction,’ said Ness grinning, ‘basement flat. It’s all downhill from here!’

  ‘Okay, well, I’ll be…’

  ‘Hold on there, Max, will you not come in and take a drink?’

  ‘No, no, you’re alright,’ said Max, ‘I should go, it’s getting late.’

  ‘Late? Are you joking me? Come on, just a wee night cap, it won’t kill you.’

  Chapter 2

  House breaking, vehicle theft and common assault constituted the bulk of D.S. Cameron’s daily workload, all of which were invariably linked in one way or another to the burgeoning drugs market which, contrary to official figures, was rife in the area. Bodies, however, were something of a rarity.

  In a single twelve-month period, he’d had to deal with just three. The first was an eighty-two-year-old pensioner found festering in her fly-ridden flat on the eleventh floor of a tower block who, having expired in her sleep, had lain undiscovered for several weeks, her absence of no concern to her neighbours. The second was a bloated carcass washed ashore with no visible signs of injury apart from those inflicted by the fish who’d delighted in feasting on his flesh as he bobbed on the ebb and flow of the tide before beaching like a whale on a rocky outcrop south of Troon. The third was a single, successful city worker found naked, dangling by a length of rope attached to a robe hook on the back of the bathroom door with a black bin liner taped tightly around his head. Autoerotic asphyxiation was a term, and a practice, that mystified him.